On your palm there’s silent knowing,
lines that speak without a sound.
In your eyes a seeking growing,
patient, sharp, already found.
Fire and shadow cross the pavement,
writing verses one will hear.
The silence waits, steady, patient,
trusting wings will find the air
Love learns slowly how to ache,
when it’s starved and kept too small.
Even hope begins to fracture,
when it’s pressed against a wall.
So, where’s the wind that doesn’t ask me
to be harder, to be strong?
Where’s the field that lets me wander
without needing to belong?
The sun feels buried under memory,
sleeping deep beneath the ground.
Still my pulse keeps marking moments,
still a truth insists on sound.
Tomorrow can take what it needs from me,
I will not pretend I’m blind.
I stay with breath, I stay with truth —
this edge, this light, my distant line.
*Inspired by Poets of the Fall
A distant line
© Copyright: Елена Цибарт, 2025
Свидетельство о публикации №125121301269
Свидетельство о публикации №125121301269
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